Sweet Satisfaction (Purple UGC Winner 2014)

Sweet Satisfaction - Twenty-One

Twenty-One

April, 1915

Brighton, Sussex

I recovered quite quickly from that incident in comparison to Mother. The doctors had found she had some ‘illness’ and she was sent away to ‘rest’ in Somerset. Everything was hushed up because of social stigma. I remember my face burning and fists clenching when Father told me it was none of my business and I shouldn’t worry. She was my Mother! I needed to know she was okay, after her extreme reaction in the lift, which I still did not understand.

Father had even brought forward my wedding, which was going to be on Christmas Eve. I had, in spite of my deep resentment for John, begun to fantasise.

On the day, there would be perfect, thick white sheets of snow, dark green fir trees and the tinkle of bells and laughter. The church would have an elegant, twisting spire that for my new summer wedding would look like an ugly gargoyle. Everyone would be moaning because it would be stifling. Not that I wouldn’t be drenched in perspiration in the first place, for my stomach gave a violent twist just thinking about my marriage.

I still felt so angry about my life being made up for me. As for Emma Aleksandrov, well, Father had given her employment as Mary’s personal maid. Why had she turned up here? Why did she want to be Mary's maid? Susanna loyally stuck to my side and we gradually spent more and more time together, just talking, painting, daydreaming. She had even gone to the Women Police Volunteers meetings in my absence.

We both agreed that with the current war going on, it was stupid to celebrate a wedding when brick by brick, England’s wall was becoming smaller. It was full of soldiers who had seen their comrades lives stolen from them and someone like Emma could’ve been making parts of an aeroplane to help them.

“She’s wasted on someone as petulant as Mary,” I told Susanna scornfully one day, curled up on the attic windowsill, the sky streaked with the remains of a purple-y orange glow which made the sea glisten.

“I just think she’s up to something,” I carried on and then shivered.

Susanna cocked her head so I retold my frosty encounters with Emma.

“Well, it’s simple. Just apologise to her. You’re not a mean person, Elsie,” Susanna said afterwards. It was like a balloon bursting and a child crying; if I apologised to Emma, my pride would deflate.

Apologise to I’m-so-perfect-Emma-Aleksandrov? I was wounded internally at just the thought. Susanna noticed the firm, hard lines of my stubborn pride on my face and handed me the piece of paper she had been fiddling with. I blinked, eyes lighting up. Bobby?

“He wants to meet at the rose bush garden,” Susanna read over my shoulder in a silly romantic tone.

Crimson blushes splattered my cheeks. Should I meet him? After all, the last time we had met he had kissed me and I was meant to be marrying John. If I didn’t go, I could hurt his feelings. What was I meant to do? Why did he want to meet me?

Half an hour later, after changing my mind so many times, I set off through the back garden, fluffing my hair so it resembled clouds around my shoulders.

“Promise you will come for me if there is word about Mother,” I had said to Susanna as I left. She squeezed my hands tightly; she knew how much just one word would mean to me, how much it would reassure me.

The rose bush garden was exactly what its name said. It was peaceful, with only birds chirruping and butterflies flitting. Sunshine streaked through gaps in the trees, illuminating wet droplets perched on leaves.

As Bobby and I ambled in awkward silence, we took in the gorgeous scents of red, pink, white and yellow roses. We rested against the rail of a wooden bridge, which crossed a stream flowing tranquilly into a lily-pad-covered pond. The scene was idyllic and I let out a long sigh, trying to prompt Bobby into talking. He was the one who had wanted to meet me, after all.

“Elsie, I need to apologise about-” I never got to hear what about because the railing fell away from me. I reached out to balance myself, grasping air. My feet slipped and then I was flying through nothing-ness.